


Impossible Year

by UneSalade



Category: Love Simon (2018), Simonverse | Creekwood Series - Becky Albertalli
Genre: Angst, Bullying, Car Accidents, Coming Out, Homophobia, Hurt/Comfort, Intersectionality, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Suicide Attempt, Therapy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2019-06-01
Packaged: 2019-06-08 04:54:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15235788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UneSalade/pseuds/UneSalade
Summary: In which Simon did not cope so well with everything falling apart.(movie verse; takes place after Blue deleted his email account)





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> A living work--subject to revisions, always open to feedback.

                When Simon woke up in the hospital bed, he didn’t expect to feel so warm.

                He almost thought that he was still in his room, body aching like so many nights before from attempts to wrench the pain of the past forty eight, seventy two, ninety six, one hundred and twenty hours from his chest by violently thrashing against his pillow. He remembered that it was too quiet, too still—the silence like he was deep underwater, the pressure liquefying his bones. In this sense, he felt strangely better—like he wasn’t choking every time he tried to contract his lungs. But then he felt the coarseness of the blankets rubbing his skin raw, the unfamiliar feeling of cold linen against his thighs—and as the fluorescent lights pinned him down into this stupid pillow that was simultaneously too thin and too plump enough to be uncomfortable, he had the urge to cry.

                “ _Simon_ —oh, Simon, sweetie—”

                A breath of crisp jasmine enveloped his head, becoming solid and wet around his shoulders. He looked through a wild mass of brown hair to see his mom’s favorite sweater shaking. As he tentatively lifted his arms around her, the door burst open to reveal his dad with tears already streaming down his red face. As he wrapped himself around them, a choked-off sob announced the light weight of a small hand closing around his. Simon squeezed his eyes shut.

                “ _I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry_ —”

                A soft hush. “No, Simon—you have nothing to be sorry about.”

                Then he remembered. And something sharp and heavy pushed the air out of his lungs—exhaling relief, and inhaling a leaden, burning guilt.

                The thing was—he had no right to feel this way. Yes, he was blackmailed and outed. Yes, he’d betrayed and lost his friends. Yes, he’d become the school pariah. And, yes, his first real love had abandoned him after he virtually outed him.  But not when he has parents waiting to make sure he knew that they loved him when he woke up, not when he has a sister who spent the last few days baking a cake to make him feel better, not when he has teachers willing to stand up for him.

                But he still felt like he lost everything.

                And he was still so afraid.

***

                The police report said that the other party ran a red light, and he had narrowly avoided them by driving into a street pole. Per witness account, the other party, a sixty-year-old man found to have a BAC of 0.117, had yelled derogatory slurs as he drove away, before being caught driving thirty miles over the speed limit by the police. The night was clear. No one else was injured.

                It also said that he had gotten out of the car, bleeding and deliriously crying. He had made an attempt to walk into incoming traffic before someone tackled him to the ground.

                It was this particular facet that the psychiatrist was trying to pull out from him.

                “So you were driving back from Waffle House—”

                “I didn’t eat at Waffle House.”

                “You didn’t?”

                “I mean, I was just driving. To clear my mind.” She gave him a look, scribbling something on her notepad. “As one does, sometimes. You know—for fun,” he hastily added.

                “What were you thinking about when you were driving?”

                The dumpster fire his life had become. “Uh, nothing much. I was mostly listening to music.”

                “Has anything particularly difficult happened to you this past week?”

                “I, uh—,” he started stammering. She gave him an encouraging look. “I—kind of. It’s been a hard week, in general.”

                “I’m sorry to hear that. What made your week so hard?”

                He fingerered the gauze wrapped around the crook of his arm. “I don’t really want to talk about it—is that O.K.? I’m sorry.”

                “That’s O.K.—just tell me whatever you feel comfortable with. But the more we know, the better we can help you, Simon.”

                He nodded, watching her scribble another line in her notepad. She had long brown hair, bitten fingernails, and dark bags under her eyes. Dr. Kathy Long. Resident. He felt bad for wasting her time. But he knew he was going to get enough therapizing from mom as it was.

                “Do you have people you can talk to about that hard week?”

                “I guess. I mean—yeah. My…mom. And dad.”

                “That’s great to hear. They were very worried when they came in—ready to tear this place apart to get to you.”

                His attempt at a laugh was rewarded with a sensation like he was stabbing himself with his own ribs.

                “Now, I was told that the driver had yelled something rather crude when he hit you—”

                He sucked in breath. She gave him another sharp look, and he stared at his name printed on the ring of plastic wrapped around his wrist. He aimed for a nonchalant “Did he say something?,” but his voice cracked at just the wrong spot.

                “Simon, are you saying that you don’t remember hearing him say anything?”

                “No. I mean, Yes, I—” And now, hot pinpricks ran across his back, up his neck, and behind his eyes. “I don’t know. I don’t know—sorry.”

                “Are you sure? We just want to make sure you didn’t get a concussion—”

                “No, I remember. I just—could we skip this question?”

                She nodded vigorously as she scribbled on her notepad, and at that moment, he hated her so much that he scared himself. He could feel his fingernails digging into the bandages on his torn palms, and he imagined them sinking through layers of warped skin, embedding into his bones.

                “Do you remember what happened after you were hit?”

                “Yes.”

                “Could you tell me about it?”

                “I was in a lot of pain, and I felt like I couldn’t breathe. So I pushed open the door and got out of the car. I started walking towards the street.” He took a breath. “I wanted to get as far away as I could.”

                “What do you mean by that, Simon?”

                “I just wanted to—to—” Nothing came out. He could feel her eyes boring into his face.

                “Have you ever thought about hurting yourself, Simon?”

                “What—no! Of course not. No, I—” Something hot and wet dripped onto his arm. He swiped at his face, coming away with liquid burning the back of his hands. Something was squeezing his lungs flat.

                “Simon—”

                “Could I go home now? Please? I’m fine. Really. I’m—”

                A roar filled his ears as he felt his body heave, buffeted uncontrollably in each direction like he was swept under a torrent.  He could barely feel her hand clasping his shoulder, hear her mutter something into his ear. The room was too hot; his skin was too tight. His chest ached like it was bleeding, turning itself inside out.

                He didn’t stop shaking until the lavender closed around his head again, and the light with it.

               

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By no means a representative depiction of a psych eval. Any comments/critique/feedback is always much appreciated--thank you so much for reading!


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which first days = worst days.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drowning in angst, lol

                Simon spent the next few days melding into his bed. In an effort to put as many layers between himself and the outside world, he closed door, drew the blinds, turned off the lights, pulled his covers and his hoody over his head, put the most emo playlist he had on loop, and pressed his fists into his eyes until he could see neon blobs crawl through space.

                In some respects, it was almost like he had successfully escaped to an alternate reality in which existence was reduced to the barest of necessities. Slow breaths, quiet aches. He wasn’t left entirely alone, though. Nora came in faithfully with a drawn out creak of the door hinge, followed by the rattle of another plate added to the mosaic of comfort food at the foot of his bed. Every so often, a hand would somehow find his head in the mess of blankets and stroke gently down his neck. His mom would ask him how he felt, and he would invariably mutter something indecipherable that she would somehow understand.

                It was hard not to replay the events of the past few months. He projected them against the dark screen of his blanket, a nightmarish reel on an endless, broken loop. In some rounds, he turned it into a kind of choose your own adventure, tumbling down various impossible paths that, somehow, still ended with him being exactly where he was at that very moment. There was one where he let Martin out him from the start, so he could keep his friends. There was one where he never emailed Blue in the first place. There was one where he stayed closeted for the rest of his life. There was one where he wasn’t gay. There was one where he wasn’t born.

                At some point, he realized that several weeks had passed since winter break; he had to get back to class if he was ever going to get out of this high school. He wasn’t sure if he was more frightened of flunking or seeing his classmates. That night, he stared at the ceiling, waiting for the sun to start sucking the shadows back into the corners and crevices, revealing messages he and his friends wrote on his wall over the years: “I’m doing just fine,” “Hour to hour, note to note,” “Breathing just passes the time.” He could still see each word clearly even in the dark—Leah’s swooping curlicues, Nick’s hieroglyphics…

                He slowly peeled himself out of his bed. Maybe if he got there early enough, he could slide into a seat at the back of homeroom and no one would notice.  He tugged on the warmest jacket he had and dragged his body down the stairs. He paused before the kitchen, bracing himself for an awkward spotlight of concerned looks. What would they say? He’d tell them that he’s feeling better—totally over it, in fact. Ready to get back on track. Making lemonade. Pulling bootstraps. Rising from ashes. Carpeing the diem—

                When he turned the corner, he was surprised to see just his dad at the counter, about to take a sip from a cup of coffee. They stared at each other until the kettle started squealing. Simon watched him rush to turn off the stove.

                “Hi, Dad.”

                “Simon—hey. Good morning,” he swiveled back to the counter, coughing into one fist as he reached for his cup with the other. “Good to see you. Up.”

                “Yeah,” Simon shoved his hands in his pockets. “Thanks, I guess.”

                “Couldn’t sleep?”

                “Kind of.”

                “Me too.”

                They listened to the clock tick. Dad cleared his throat. “So, uh” he took a large gulp, Adam’s apple bobbing, “how are you feeling? Looks like you’re heading out, somewhere?”

                “Better.” He probably sounded like shit. “Yeah, I feel better—was actually about to leave for school.”

                “School? But it’s five in the morning, Si. Doesn’t school start at eight thirty?”

                “I, uh, wanted to get a head start. Since I’m walking. Because the car is...” he waved a hand weakly in the air, “…you know. Don’t want to be late.”

                “It’s pitch black outside—”

                “That’s fine. I’ll bring a flashlight.”

                “—and it’s still an hour, hour half walk at most. What are you going to do there so early? ”

                “There’s, uh—” Shit. “I’m thinking of signing up for zero period PE next year. Thought it might be good to check it out, see what it’s like.”

                “Si, you already took PE. And I’ve never seen you voluntarily get up before seven just to exercise. Let alone any of your friends. Unless you’re trying to subtly give them a hint to find another chauffeur—in which case, that’s a pretty good plan. But why not get more bang for your buck instead? I’d recommend asking them to pay their fare in gift cards to that coffee shop you guys are so obsessed with—Si, are you alright?”

                “What?” Fuck, was he crying? “I’m fine,” his throat was closing again. He swiped at his eyes. “I’m fine.”

                “Si—”

                “No, Dad. Really,” breathe in, breathe out, “I’m _fine._ ”

                Dad stared at him with a look that he couldn’t really put his finger on. Maybe he should have stayed in bed for the next eight hundred years. They listened to Simon attempt to sniffle quietly, forcing the tears back down his throat.

                Then, he sighed, grabbing a tissue box across the counter and placing it in front of Simon. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

                “It’s alright, Dad—”

                “No, Si—please. Let me drive you.” He had already grabbed the keys, patting Simon on the shoulder before sweeping out of the room. “Don’t want to be late.”

                Their headlights sliced through the night to reveal a largely empty road. The stoplights hung suspended in the ether like disembodied eyes. Dad spent the first five minutes pushing every button on the radio before turning it off. The quiet settled between them, solid and thick.

                Simon rested his head against the window, trying to focus on the cold spreading across his temple. He felt heavy and muffled, like he had a cold. Maybe he should have taken a shower.

                It was still dark when they rolled into the parking lot. Most of the teachers hadn’t arrived yet. Dad let the car idle for a few undecided minutes before turning off the engine. They stared at the front doors of the school together. Masked in the dark blue of twilight, it looked something like an oversized mausoleum.

                “So…here we are.”

                “Yeah.” Simon didn’t want to get out of the car. “Thanks for the ride, Dad.”

                “Anytime.”

                “I guess I’ll see you later.

                “Yeah—Mom or I’ll pick you up when school’s out.”

                “Great. Thanks.”

                Neither of them moved.

                Simon closed his eyes, counting his breaths. Maybe Mr. Worth could let him sit in his office—principals usually come in early, right? How else would he be able to thoroughly confiscate phones in the hallway every morning? Was the theater unlocked? Maybe he could find the janitor, ask if he could let him sob in the broom closet until school started—

                “If you’re not ready to go in there, Simon, we can go back home.” He gave him a look that he’s been seeing far too many times on Mom’s face. “I’ll turn this car around, no problem.”

                “No, I’m ready.”

                “Are you sure?”

                “I—,” Simon ran his hand through his hair, rubbing the grease between his fingers. He tried out a laugh. “I’m not going to graduate if I don’t show up at some point.”

                “You should take as much time as you need, Si.”

                “I don’t know if there’s enough time, Dad.”

                “Simon, you’re only sixteen. You have so much life ahead of you—Si, come on, look at me,” he placed a hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly. “Si, please.”

                Simon searched outside the window. Cars started filling the parking lot. Mrs. Albright, in an oversized pea coat and a pair of oversized aviators more suited for an evening in Times Square than a mild winter morning in Atlanta, was powerwalking toward the front doors.

                Simon unbuckled his seatbelt. “There’s Ms. Albright—I’ll see you later.”

                “Si, wait—”

                “Thanks for the ride, Dad.” He slammed the door shut, and sprinted towards the steps before the guilt could catch him. “Ms. Albright!”

                She turned. “Simon?” She raised her sunglasses along with a sharp eyebrow. “You know theater practice isn’t for another ten hours, right? Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture—you all need an intervention—but my expectations have sunk way below off-Broadway at this point, honey.”

                “No, yeah—I’m just here for homeroom.”

                “Two hours early?”

                “…Yes?”

                She stared at him with a blank face. He tried to look unsuspicious, one hand hooked on his backpack strap and the other stuffed in his pocket. But mostly, his eyes felt raw. They were probably bloodshot; he wondered if she thought he was high. Or delirious.

                After what seemed like several hours of scrutiny, she sighed. “Let’s get inside so I can take off this jacket before the hot flashes start.”

                Simon trailed after her into the empty theater. Her heels clacked down the aisle towards the stage. He glanced at the rows of empty seats surrounding them. Maybe if he settled in one of the chairs in the very back corner, he could go unnoticed—

                “Spier, are you coming or not?”

                “What?”

                She stood at the foot of the stage, sunglasses perched at the tip of her nose. “Did you think you were just going to kick back and nap while I bust a hip prepping for your fellow teenage basket cases to dirty my cheap plywood stage with emotionally dead PDA and the infantile flailing you all call dancing?”

                “Uh, no, I—what?”

                “Do you have any work to do?”

                “I mean, I know I’ll have some make-up work—”

                “And did you plan on doing that right now?”

                “Well, I haven’t picked it up yet—”

                “So you’re going to help me photocopy an Amazon forest’s worth of readings and homework assignments, right?”

                “I—guess?”

                “Yeah, you guessed right. Come on,” She swept up the stairs, curtains swinging behind her, “time’s running out, like my health benefits this year.”

                So did Simon find himself watching the copy machine spit out his badly scanned pages of Hamlet’s various soliloquys. Every two minutes, he haphazardly opened random parts of the machine to pull out disfigured sheets of paper causing yet another jam.

                He periodically checked the clock hung right above the machine, heart leaping with every centimeter progress the hands made towards eight thirty. At this rate, he’ll end up slinking into homeroom _after_ the rest of his classmates came in. He could see the stares—what would they be thinking? He hadn’t checked Creek Secrets since…that. Was a couple of weeks enough for everyone to forget about him and move on to the next scandal? Unless they knew about the accident—but how would they know? If it was on the news, they wouldn’t say his name, would they? But what would it really matter, anyway? He closed his eyes—his chest felt tight, like someone had wrapped a rubber band around it. Breathe in, breathe out. He didn’t even have friends to worry about anymore. What was the worst that they could do? He just had to focus on school—on getting out, getting somewhere better, somewhere safer—

                “How’s the copying coming along, Mr. Spier?”

                He jumped, swinging around. “Great, Mrs. Albright! Almost finished—” He was confused to find her skeptical gaze directed below his face. “Ms. Albright?”

                “Were you planning on beating up that machine?”

                “What?” She pointed at his hands. He unclenched his fists, and they watched a blotchy pink seep back across livid knuckles. A pulsing ache rushed into his palms where his nails broke through the skin. Simon stared at the blood welling in the crescent indentations. Hollow thuds started echoing in his ears.

                Without a word, Ms. Albright swooped out of the room. He was struck with panic—was she going to call his parents? 911? But she came back with a first aid kit. She grabbed his hands, opening them palms up. Thin scabs crisscrossed his skin, left over from the accident. The copy machine jammed as she cleaned up the blood and applied a band-aid on each hand, beeping a beat off the ticking of the clock.

                Simon fingered the plastic with his fingers, mumbling a thanks. He couldn’t meet her eyes. What was he supposed to do now? He reached back for the copy machine, pulling open several parts until he found the jam. He could feel Ms. Albright’s eyes boring into his back as he dropped the crumpled piece of paper in the bin. What did she see?

                He grabbed the stack of assignments on the counter and presented it to her. ‘O what a rogue and peasant slave am I!’ by the faint and blurry hundreds. He cleared his throat, “Sorry I took so long. There might be a few missing pages, but I checked each set.”

                She didn’t respond. Simon stared at her shoes—she had switched out her heels for a pair of loafers. He was about to apologize again, when she sighed. She took the paper from his arms and set it back on the counter. Then she grabbed his right hand, opening it palm up to place a small brass key. He looked up at her in confusion.

                “Look, Simon—the students don’t know what happened. But your teachers do. I do. If at any time you feel like you need to step out for a bit, the theater is locked when I’m not here.” She gave him a grim smile. “Got it?”

                “Thanks, Ms. Albright.”

                “You don’t seem like the type to do something funny, but if you ever think about doing something funny,” her eyebrows nearly touched her hairline, “don’t. And if you end up doing something that’ll get me fired, at least give me some advanced notice so I can prepare myself a celebratory glass of rosé, alright?”

                “Understood.”

                “You have fifteen minutes—go find a seat.”

                Simon dashed out of the room and into the darkness of the theater. He sunk into a seat in the far right corner towards the exit, and pulled out the battered copy of _Death of a Salesman_ he was supposed to be finished with by now. The lights came on just as he got settled. A few shaky pages in, students started slinking in, laughing and shoving each other across the seats. By the start of homeroom, no one had even turned their head towards him. He slouched a little lower with a relieved sigh. He owed Ms. Albright a lifetime of copy machine fumes and paper jams.

                “Alright, you overgrown, hormonal toddlers—time to sit down and clam up for roll call. If I can’t hear you, you weren’t here.” She extracted a thin packet from a folder under her arm, somehow snapping it in the air like a whip. “Anderson, Ashley?”

                “Here!”

                “Abrogar, AJ?”

                “Here!”

                Simon spaced out as she went down the alphabet. Did everyone decide to come to school today?

                “Smith, Jake?”

                “Present!”

                “Soon, Hunter?”

                “Here!”

                “Spier, Simon—is here. Suso, Abby?”

                “Here?” Simon carefully averted his eyes as heads swiveled around the theater, rotating like searchlights. A low murmur rumbled: “Simon’s here?” “That’s the gay kid, right?” “Wasn’t he really sick, or something?” He read the same paragraph at least ten times until the school bulletin started over the PA. _‘Pop, I'm nothing! I'm nothing, Pop. Can't you understand that? There's no spite in it any more.’_

                He packed up slowly when the bell rang, waiting for everyone to exit before shuffling out himself. He kept his eyes on the floor as he made a beeline for his locker. He spun the combination once, twice—what? He rattled the lock. Maybe it was—no. Something sunk heavily down his chest. Did he really forget his combo? Already? What the actual fuck—

                “Simon.” He jumped. Abby spun open her locker in one fluid motion. “Long time no see.”

                “Abby! Hi. How, uh—how are you doing?”

                “Good. Nick and Leah are doing good, too.” She pulled out a textbook, replacing the ones in her backpack. “And you?”

                “Same! Yeah, I’m just—fine. Everything’s fine.”

                “Good to hear.” She closed her locker with a clang, and clicked the lock shut. With a smile he’s seen on every coffee barista and checkout clerk, she gave him a bright, “Have a great day!” and strut down the hallway. Someone wrapped an arm around her waist as she turned the corner—probably Nick.

                He leaned his head against the cold metal of his totally useless locker, aimlessly turning the dial. It felt like someone had left open a drain, emptying him of whatever vitality he managed to scrounge up to get here. Maybe he should have stayed in bed for at least the next twenty years.

                “Spier!”

                He couldn’t be fucking serious.

                “Spie—wow, you look like shit.”

                “Leave me alone, Martin.”

                “No need to bite! I’m just making an honest observation.”

                He let the lock slip from his fingers with a dull clack, pivoting on his feet to get as far away as possible. “Bye, Martin.” He’ll have to ask the janitor to unlock it for him.

                Martin took off after him. “I’m just trying to keep you company! I know you don’t have any friends right now—”

                “And I don’t need someone like you in my life.”

                “I said I’m _sorry_ —”

                “Your apologies are pretty worthless, at this point.”

                Martin managed to grab his arm. A hot surge of anger swept through his body. “Spier, hey, come on—“

                Simon whirled around. “I told you, leave me the fuck—”

                He registered the metallic explosion thundering in his ears first. Then, the surprising chill of linoleum brushing his ankles, the side of his fingers. The ringing seemed to last for several minutes, drowning everything out in reverberating waves of shattering glass, billowing smoke. For a moment, he thought that someone had shot a gun next to his head.

                “Get a room, you fairies!”

                With an almost physical snap, he found himself tipped back into reality—which was half lying on the floor, leaning against the lockers like he was trying to hear some secret being whispered inside. A focalized throbbing spread across his left arm.

                “Sorry, Spier, I—”

                A small forest of legs stood quivering around him. One of them retreated back, back back—

                “I don’t even know him. He’s the one who approached me—”

                The bell rang. The trees moved away, dispersing quickly to reveal an open road. The ringing resolved into a low roar—anonymous wheels rushing past.

                Simon closed his eyes, slowly getting up. He waited a moment, letting the ache settle in his bones, heavy, hard.

                It was going to be a long day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, feedback very much welcome and appreciated! Thank you so much for reading!


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Ice Cube heralds nothing very good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> essentially an angst-fest

By the time the bell rang for lunch, Simon wouldn’t have been surprised if he found himself being burned in effigy in the middle of the cafeteria.

                He knew that he was behind in his schoolwork—but he didn’t realize he would be _that_ behind. The brief meetings he had with each teacher after class were eerily similar enough to be scripted—a look of concern (“How are you feeling?”), followed by relief (“I’m fine”), followed by nonchalance (“You didn’t miss out on _too_ much”), followed by pity (“Let me know if you have any questions”), followed by a rather nauseating cheer (“Welcome back!”). His backpack looked like the copy machine had vomited a whole ream of paper in it.

                Stepping into the hallway felt like entering some kind of twilight zone. He wasn’t sure if he was just imagining the stares and the whispers, or if he had truly turned into the school pariah in his absence. He tried to distract himself by focusing on something else—which wasn’t that hard. Every slight movement he made with his left arm felt like it was being stabbed repeatedly with an iron poker.

                He was excited to discover what novel skin colors his body was capable of producing.

                Most students were already seated by the time he shuffled to the tail end of the lunch line. A few people looked away when he noticed that they were staring at him. He quickly grabbed his tray and made a beeline for the empty table across the room, skirting around landmines in the form of old and new acquaintances by keeping his eyes on the ground. His hands were shaking by the time he managed to sit down. He then spent the next five minutes struggling to tear open the plastic wrapping around his spork, only to subsequently drop it on the ground.

                He wasn’t going back to get another one.

                The french fries were disconcertingly lukewarm and tasteless. He wasn’t sure if it was because he got the reheated frozen reserves, or his frayed nerves decided to shut down any bodily function that wouldn’t contribute to an overwhelming sense of Regret and Impending Panic. Probably both. Every so often, he thought he heard someone say his name, or “the gay kid”; his heart would stutter, and he’d shove fries down his throat until he choked. Maybe anxiety was just a mixture of paranoia and narcissism. He had the urge to pull out his phone to at least pretend to be preoccupied—but he definitely wasn’t going to do that here, in the youth public forum, especially after…

                He dug into his backpack for _Death of a Salesman_. After scrubbing his greasy fingers on a napkin, he flipped to where he last left off, easily found by the horrid page-long creases he made when he stuffed it in his backpack. “… _You can't eat the orange and throw the peel away - a man is not a piece of fruit…_ ”

                After rubbing the corners of several pages translucent and rancid, he realized that he didn’t absorb a single word. He could feel his throat start to close up, and _of course—_ he couldn’t make it through lunch without bursting into tears over something as stupid as needlessly mucking up a library book. He had to leave, he needed to leave—but leaving would also mean standing up and walking across the cafeteria, and walking across the cafeteria before lunch was over meant that people would definitely notice how his entire body was shivering like he had a cold, how he could hardly breathe, how he should never have come back to school in the first place—  

                And that’s when Ice Cube started blasting through the cafeteria.

                If he were being honest with himself, he wasn’t that surprised that they were humiliating the only two out gay kids in front of the entire school—from the garish wigs to the ugly, high pitched squeals coming from his caricature, it was up to par with all the other worst case scenarios he’d been expecting that had inevitably come true since being outed. He wasn’t surprised that he felt something wet on his face, or that he heard the sharp crumple and tear of paper.

                What he didn’t expect was to find himself being pulled roughly off the Ethan impersonator, who laid on the ground with a hand over his face, staring at him with wide eyes as his scarf turned red. What he didn’t expect was to feel his knuckles tingling, his entire arm throbbing to beat of his heart racing, racing, racing—

                He didn’t even realize he was screaming until Ms. Albright took him by the shoulders and told him to calm down, Simon, I need you to calm down, it’s over, I won’t let this happen again. And over her concerned face, he sees everyone staring at him, and he sees Leah and Abby and Nick staring at him like they don’t recognize him anymore, and he sees Bram standing halfway up on his seat staring at him with a look on his face that made him realize for the first time that not only is he broken, but a monster as well.

                And that’s enough to let him be quietly led out of the cafeteria to the principal’s office. He didn’t dare look at Ethan, and he wasn’t sure he physically could—he’s probably cried enough to permanently glue his eyelids shut. He tried to focus on the hard, metallic clicks of the clock hanging above them, counting down the remaining moments until he was suspended, expelled, institutionalized, or otherwise never leaving his bedroom ever again.

                When Ethan does speak, it’s almost a whisper, but it makes him jump anyway. “You could have told me you were gay.”

                He wants to laugh, because look at all the good that came out of telling anyone that he was gay, but instead, he has to clear his throat several times and swallow thick globs of phlegm to get any sound out of his mouth. “I didn’t think we had much in common.”

                “Yeah, not with that hoodie-exclusive wardrobe you’ve got going on.”

                And then he actually does laugh. It feels like it’s pulled unbidden from his body. And maybe that’s the most surprising thing that happened so far. “Yeah. I’m a fucking mess.”

                “It’s been hard, hasn’t it.” He states it as a fact—and, well.

                Simon tilts his head back again the wall, letting the tics trickle down into his skull. “You could say that.”

                He listens to Ethan sigh, to the soft rustle of his starched nylon pants as he uncrossed and crossed his legs, the light scratch of his fingernails drumming against his thigh. “It’s the curse of every gay coming-of-age experience—it gets worse before it maybe, just might eventually get better.”

                “You make it look so easy, though.”

                Ethan’s snort drags Simon’s eyes to his amused smirk and elegantly raised eyebrow. Challenging and poised, as he’s been with every bully he’s seen him turn his nose up at since elementary school. “Easy? My mom still tells my grandparents about all the girls I’m dating when we go over to their house for dinner, every Sunday. She says it’s easier that way. But you should hear her voice when she talks about those girls.”

                “I’m sorry.”

                “Don’t be. You should be sorry for the seniors living with those two Neanderthals at the local nursing home, when they regale them yet again with the story of how they became runners up for Honorary Plebian of the Court at prom.”

                Simon laughs again, involuntarily, like he was struck on the knee. Ethan’s smirk softens, then purses, like he’s holding a question in his mouth. But then he shakes his head, looking straight forward and folding his hands primly in his lap like he’s holding something under the arch of his fingers. Simon wants to ask what he was thinking, when the door swung open, and he realizes he probably knows exactly what Ethan was thinking.

                The Ethan impersonator has an ice pack smothering the lower half of his face, but it still doesn’t quite hide the sneer behind his muttered “sorry,” or his low snicker as vice principal Worth can’t seem to understand that, no, Simon and Ethan aren’t boyfriends. Five minutes into Worth’s likely twenty minute likely pre-written speech on the school tolerance policy and values and mission statement, the bell rang, and Simon scooped his backpack up onto his shoulder, determined to hide in the theater or the bathroom or the janitor’s closet or a manhole until the end of the school day, and maybe arrange some kind of pathetic Postmates-style way to get his homework delivered straight to his bedroom from which he was never going to leave ever again, when he was jerked back by the handle of his backpack.

                “Not so fast, Mr. Spier—I believe you have something to say to Mr. Smith and Mr. Arnold?”

                Simon stared at his expectant, cheerfully condescending face. Then at Ethan. Then at Smith and Arnold, who didn’t seem like they were ready to leave any time soon. “What?”

                “An apology, Simon.”

                “…Excuse me?”

                Worth narrowed his eyes, growing sterner and taller and meaner, and maybe this was how he became the vice principal. “Though you aren’t going to be suspended, thanks to Ms. Albright’s insistence, that doesn’t mean we tolerate violence here at Creekwood High, Mr. Spier. So I believe you owe these two gentleman an apology for your actions today.”

                He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He wasn’t sorry—why would he be sorry? Simon could feel his hands shaking again, the ache of bruises beginning to rise along the back of his knuckles—and he wasn’t sure if it was from the residual anger biting into the scars on his palms, or the fear that had wound around his windpipe some time ago and never quite loosened.

                “Mr. Spier, we don’t have all day. And I am not going to give you a late pass.”

                Simon looked at them, with their ugly wigs and the dried blood on the Ethan impersonator’s scarf and the twinge of glee twisting the corners of their mouths and he tried so hard to not look away, to stop being so afraid and to stand up for himself for once in his life and to stop letting fear take away these bits and pieces and chunks of himself until he found himself being blackmailed and manipulating his friends and driving into a pole and getting out of the car and—

                “—do you hear me, Mr. Spier? I won’t hesitate to put this on your permanent record—”

                He felt his eyes being dragged down, down, down against his own will, until it rested on one untied and dirty shoelace. Was it always that dirty and worn? “Sorry,” he mumbled.

                “And what are you sorry for, Mr. Spier?”

                “Sorry for...punching you in the face.”

                “Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

                Simon had his head down as Worth finished his closing remarks, and he kept his head down as he pushed through the door and rushed down the empty hallway. His face burned and his eyes stung and—fuck he was fifteen minutes late to English, and he’s pretty sure he lost at least five pages of _Death of a Salesman_ during lunch alone. He was so absorbed in trying to figure out if his breathing was getting uneven because he was having a panic attack or he was just really out of shape, getting his breathing even more uneven in the process, so it was probably leaning towards a panic attack, that when he felt someone tap him on the shoulder, he jerked back so violently that he almost smacked Ethan in the face.

                Ethan had his hands up, both bewildered and amused. “Alright, well, at least I know you’re not purposefully ignoring me now.”

                “Shit—I’m so sorry.”

                “I already told you not to be sorry,” he looks at him meaningfully over his glasses, “it definitely still applies here.”

                “Sorry.”

                He shook his head, pulling a sheet of paper from his messenger bag. “I wanted to give you this, before we mutually repress the events of the day for the rest of our adult lives.” Above a raised fist outlined in rainbow was ‘THE GAY AGENDA’ in large, bold, capitalized stencil. The only other text was an address in the next town over, and below that, a phone number written in blue pen.

                “It’s not a support group, per se, if that’s what you’re thinking. Though we do emotionally support one another, and bitch about straight people and society as a whole at every meeting.” Ethan gives him a small smile, smooth and composed, before continuing down the hall. “You have my number. Hope to see you Friday.”

                Simon stares after him until he disappears into a classroom, then stares at the flyer, the number written in blue ink, mind weirdly blank. Then he remembers that Blue wasn’t out, and didn’t want to talk to him, or have anything to do with him, and he was now twenty minutes late to English. True to his word, Worth didn’t give him a late pass—but the pitying look Ms. Rotow gave him as he interrupted her mid-lesson to shuffle to his desk all the way towards the back of the room was embarrassing enough. When he met with her after class to further beat just how behind he was into his head, she didn’t even mention his missing half the class. Just gave him another sad look, which was worse than getting chewed out, at this point.

                At the last bell, he’s in front of his locker again, fumbling with the combination before remembering that he couldn’t open it. He sighs, resigned. It’s not like he doesn’t already have a month’s worth of make-up work in his backpack. But he keeps twirling the lock until the crowd drains out of the hallway, until he could hear individual footsteps and low whispers and the squeak of doors swinging open and shut. It gets so quiet that he can hear his pulse thudding in his arm, pulsing dully at the back of his eyes. So he really should have seen it coming, the hard shove to the shoulder that momentarily crushed him against the cold metal.

                The Simon impersonator was still wearing his hoody and converse and jeans, and it was unnerving to see those parts of himself on someone who hated him so much. His sneer was replaced with something darker, hard and sharp. “You better watch your back, Spier—Albright won’t be there to save you next time.”              

                Simon was really done with today.

                The parking lot is blissfully mostly empty when he steps out of the front doors, the buses having already left. He sends a brief text to his parents that he was walking back home, and he’ll call an Uber or get on the bus if necessary so please don’t worry he just needs some fresh air, and promptly turns his phone on silent.

                He lets out a long breath, and starts walking.

                It really wasn’t a bad walk. It was actually a really good day for a long walk: the sky was stupidly, brilliantly blue and clear, the sun indiscriminately shining away all shadow and gloom, the air burning clean and cold through his nostrils, scratching gently at his hands and neck. Except for the stray car or gasping jogger rushing past, it was so unbearably peaceful and calm and quiet that he forced himself to stare at nothing else but the concrete, tracing thin cracks until they hit dead ends. Another inexplicable urge to cry surged through him, and he hadn’t even started thinking about how he was going to make it through the rest of the year without spontaneously imploding or turning into one big bruise, like one of those blackened wads of gum littering the quad, except squished like playdough through the grates of his inaccessible, useless locker. He tried to focus on something more constructive, like estimating how many tree corpses of makeup work was he carrying in his backpack, which still made him want to cry, but in a more rational and environmentally reprehensible way.

                He couldn’t have brooded over how totally fucked he was for more than thirty minutes when a honk way closer than it should have been sent him nearly careening into a well-trimmed rose bush.

                A car window rolled down, and Simon braced himself—for a slur, a shove, a gunshot—before Bram’s sheepish, uncertain face came into view. 

                “Hey, Simon.”

                “Oh, hey, Bram.”

                “Where, um, are you going?”

                “Home? It’s not that far from here.”

                Bram’s eyebrows scrunched together, forming a thin line in the middle of his forehead. “Don’t you live in Peachtree? That’s, like, twenty minutes by car from here. Or forty five minutes walking.”

                “I do. But it’s not that far away, really,” he repeats helpfully, tugging at his backpack straps like it’ll keep him from running away from this unexpected social interaction he was totally unprepared and definitely not in the right state of mind for.

                From the way Bram was gripping the steering wheels with both hands, like they were permanently locked at 10 and 2 o’clock, he was also extremely uncomfortable with what was happening. “Do you, um, need—or, er, want a ride? Home?”

                “Oh, it’s O.K., you don’t have to—”

                “I want to!” Bram seems to immediately backtrack from this outburst, only to push himself slightly forward, like an indecisive but determined spring. “Please—I don’t mind. I’m going that way anyway.”

                “Oh, O.K.,” he says, dumbly, “if you’re sure it’s—I don’t want to inconvenience—”

                “I’m very sure, Simon.” Bram tries for a weak smile, showing his teeth like he’s about to get them pulled. Simon’s painfully reminded of that one time when Bram asked if he could have one of his fries, like he’s asking for a small, embarrassing favor. “Get in the car.”

                Bram has the radio turned low enough that the faint strains of today’s top hits melded with the soft roar of the road. Simon musters every last bit of energy he has to stare straight ahead, hands clenching and unclenching around the handle of his backpack on the floor. At the fourth stoplight, Bram clears his throat.

                “Hey, uh—sorry for all the...stuff that happened today.”

                “What’re you sorry for?” Simon’s not sure if he wants to laugh or sigh, so he quashes the urge down until his throat spasms. “It’s not your fault.”

                “No, I mean—I just—” he sounds so frustrated that Simon allows himself a quick glance at Bram still gripping the wheel like he’s melded to it, at the muscle in his jaw jumping. “It’s just really fucking dumb and unfair and—and _cruel_ that something like that even happens. That it happened to _you_.”

                “Bram, it’s O.K.—”

                “No, it’s _not_ _O.K._ , Simon!”

                And now Bram is looking at him, and he feels like a gaping wound. Someone honks behind them, and Bram keeps driving.

                “Sorry, I just—” he sighs, and his arms finally fall slack, like the rope holding him between his seat and the wheel had snapped. “I’m sorry I didn’t back you up, or intervene, or stand up for you. Or just stand _by_ you.”

                “You’re not obligated to do any of that, Bram,” Simon says quietly. “It’s my problem, and I have to deal with it—no one else should be dragged into this mess because of my own mistakes.”

                Bram looks pained and miserable. “It shouldn’t have to be this way.”

                “Yeah,” Simon stares back out the window, clenching and unclenching his fists. He kneads through the soreness, the bruises so close to the surface that they could break through his skin. “But I really appreciate it, though. So don’t worry about it.”

                “I’m so sorry, Simon.”   

                “Don’t be.”

                They don’t talk for the rest of the way back.

                When they pull up in front of his house, Simon swallows back a vague and pathetic disappointment, letting it twist and curl around his stomach. He unlatches the seatbelt and carefully climbs out, body stiffened into one unified slab of pain. “Thanks for the ride.”

                “No problem.” Bram sucks his lip in hard, draining it white before it slips between his teeth to let the blood rush back in. “I’ll see you tomorrow, right?”

                If he were being honest, he’d say that he wasn’t even sure if he was going to make it through the rest of the day. But he wasn’t even ready to be honest with himself, so he manages to scrounge up a weak smile. “Yeah. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

                Bram doesn’t drive away until Simon’s closed the front door behind him, letting his head fall back against the wood. He let himself breathe for just a few moments—in and out, in and out, in and out—until it felt a little less like something was trying to press him flat on the ground, like his legs were about to collapse from carrying his own weight.

                He’s halfway up the stairs in a beeline to his room, when his mother calls from the living room. “Simon?”

                “Yeah, Mom?”

                “Could you come here for a sec? Your father and I wanted to talk to you.”

                Fuck.

                As soon as he sees the disappointment hanging slightly heavier on the frown lines crisscrossing their faces—the ones that he made himself, the ones that he keeps digging deeper and deeper—he knows what they want to talk about. So he just stares at them sitting together on the couch, then stares at the carpet when he can’t stand the sad look on his mom’s face. He focuses on digging his fingernails into the band-aids on his palms, wondering if he can break through the plastic and cloth.

                His mom clears her throat, making a sound like she actually had something stuck there, choking her voice to something tentative and too soft. “We got a call from the school—they told us you were in a fight?”

                “Not really—I don’t—it wasn’t really a fight.”

                “’Wasn’t really a fight’?” his dad barks out a laugh. “What does that even mean, Simon?”

                “Jack, please.” His mom takes in a deep breath. “Could you tell us what happened, Si?”

                He’s running his fingernails over his palms, pressing down the heat rising up from his chest, the stupid tremble running along the bruises he knows are bleeding up through the skin of his knuckles, his arms. “It’s not—it’s nothing. Just something really stupid. I don’t—I won’t do it again.”

                “Simon—”

                “It’s ‘nothing,’ but also something ‘stupid’ enough for you to break some kid’s nose for? Simon, you know you’re better than that.”

                “Jack, stop—“

                “No, Emily—we can’t let this slide.” His voice gets bigger and louder, hanging over them like a fist. “Look, we know things have been very hard lately, and you’re not ready to go back to school. That’s fine—we get it. But that doesn’t mean you can pick fights and hurt other people.”

                “I’m sorry, Dad.”

                “Sorry isn’t going to cut it, Simon!” he laughs again, jagged and hysterical. “You hardly leave your bedroom anymore, you don’t talk to us or to Nora or to your friends, and _now_ you’re picking fights. I don’t know what’s gotten into you—it’s like you’re entirely different person; I can hardly recognize you anymore—”

                “Jack, will you please just _shut up_!”

                He’s never heard his mom speak so sharply before. He sneaks a glance at them and regrets it—regrets seeing her chest heave, the pale shock holding his jaw soundlessly open. Simon’s running his fingernails over his palms, feeling the heat rising through the plastic and cloth, the slight wetness sticking to his skin. And he can’t take it anymore.

                “Simon, he didn’t mean it—”

                “No, Mom, I get it.” He’s already falling backwards, disappearing from sight. “But you’re wrong, Dad. This is who I’ve always been. And I’m sorry if that’s not what you wanted.”

                “No, no, no, Simon, wait—”

                When he finally gets to his room, he has a vague thought that this would be the sort of occasion where he should dramatically and emphatically slam the door to make sure his point is heard. But he doesn’t have anything left to say to anyone or anything, and he’s so fucking exhausted and Done that he can barely get himself over the threshold before collapsing onto his bed.

                He lets out one long, slow breath, flesh deflating around his bones.

                Some minutes, hours, days, years later, when he can’t hear his parents yelling at each other anymore, when Nora knocks on his door to offer her own apologies to him, apologies she doesn’t owe anyone, he laughs so hard that his shoulders shake.

                Everyone’s just so sorry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise, back from the dead! Thank you so much for sticking around and reading--as always, any feedback/comments/critique are much welcome and very appreciated!


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which some linings may be silver.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> maybe a little less angst, but still pretty angsty
> 
> (Question for you, out of curiosity: Why do you read angst? What proportion of stories that you read are angst?)

When Simon swung his feet off his bed at four am the next day, he is sweating, shaking, and still in his clothes from yesterday. He’s not sure if he slept at all, and he doesn’t really care.

                He’s also very certain that this day will also be a total shitshow, especially if he goes back to school now. But both the masochistic and survivalist sides of him had somehow managed to overpower his rational side, which said that the best way to spend the rest of his life was to stay in bed and never leave, by hitting him with the terrifying certainty that if he didn’t graduate high school and get out of this town as soon as possible, he’ll die.

                He tried not to follow that train of thought much further.

                A weirdly heavy desperation coming from outside his body spurred him on—some trembling thing fought through the thick haze to grab his backpack for him, untouched from where he dropped it like a corpse at the foot of his bed; to make him scrub his face and rinse his mouth; to carry him down the stairs, barely catching him as he stumbled in the dark; to prop his head up and hold his legs still as he locked eyes with his dad again, waiting for the hot water on the stove to boil.

                And it’s his dad who looks away first.

                “Simon,” he says, hoarse and rough. He coughs into his fist, and Simon wonders what he’s trying to clear his throat of—was it from last morning, when Simon slammed the car door in his face? Or was it from the phone call from school, the shocked silence his mom managed to choke him with?

                “Dad,” he says, hoarse and inaudible.

                They stand there saying nothing until the kettle whistles some several minutes, hours later. Dad takes a quiet sip and burns his tongue. Simon’s neck starts to hurt from the strain of holding his head up. He wonders what Dad would do if he just walked out the door right now, and he considers doing just that—considers walking to school, considers walking past the school, considers walking in a straight line until he hit a dead end. Considers what it would take to leave everything behind. The trembling thing holds him upright as he counts—he’ll go in _five, four, three, two—_

                But then Dad is pouring the coffee down the sink and grabbing his keys from the counter. “Let’s go,” he says.

                Simon doesn’t argue.

                The ride is quiet and dark. Dad changes stations so quickly that they’re just listening to blips of static, toneless notes that manage to slip past the hard clack of his fingernail against the button. He makes it through five and a half rounds of both AM and FM stations before he turns it off. He cracks open his window, letting the soft slap of the wind fill the space around and between them. Simon sits on his hands and tries not to shiver.

                When they get to the empty parking lot, Simon stumbles out the door as soon as they come to a stop. He mumbles a curt thanks and doesn’t look back as he makes his way towards the theater—and he knows he’s being petty and unreasonable, knows he’s being a terrible son as he sits on the front steps and runs his fingernails over the bandages on his palms, watching his dad’s headlights illuminate a spindly tree for too long before sweeping a slow circle and disappearing around the corner. Sitting there in the dark, looking out into the empty parking lot, he suddenly felt both too big and too small, and terrifyingly angry—a plunging embarrassment that made his teeth chatter, grinding away on the fact that he couldn’t talk to his dad anymore, that he couldn’t drive anymore, that he had to sneak into school like this because he wouldn’t be able to get himself to go otherwise. All because of something as stupid and melodramatic as being outed. Being gay. 

                He’s looking out into the empty parking lot, waiting for Ms. Albright to let him in, even though she gave him a key, and it’s quiet and dark, and the road’s right there—stretching out and away, barely lit and endless. And he’s daring himself to move, to stand up and walk to the exit and keep walking. The road is dark and quiet, and there’s no one there to stop him. His legs are quivering, there are bandages on his palms and bruises on his arms, and he’s going to do it in _ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four three, two—_

                A car turns into the parking lot, headlights forcing his eyes shut. He keeps them shut as they leave green smudges trailing down his eyelids, as the wheels crunch on gravel and the engine cuts off. The sharp and clean taps of her high heels press against his temple, and the trembling thing abandons him. He feels limp and paper thin.

                “Here early again, Mr. Spier?” She’s wearing another oversized pea coat, with another gold-plated pair of oversized aviators.

                “Yeah,” he gets to his feet and observes an unfamiliar stain on his shoe. “Sorry, Ms. Albright.”

                “The only thing you have to be sorry for is my dry and irreparably chapped skin—Lord grant me a jar of Vaseline, it’s _freezing_ out here,” she wrestles the door open and ushers him in. “If I were you, I would have used that key to take a nap next to the overheating furnace that is our Xerox machine.”

                “Oh, yeah, I uh,” he waddled after her down the aisle, blinking his way through the glare of the overhead lights, “I wasn’t sure if I should—I wanted to wait for you. In case you needed help.”

                She abruptly stops and turns around at the foot of the stage, catching Simon by the arm before he headbutts her and dragging him back towards the seats in one fluid motion. He’s reminded of how she always referred to Broadway with a kind of nostalgic disdain, of the meticulous and painstaking detail she puts into her sets and songs and shows for awkward and narcissistic teens alike, and wonders how she ended up here. “Not that I mind being waited upon,” she sighs emphatically, “but I’ve got enough copies of _Hamlet_ to cover a year’s worth of students losing their soliloquys miraculously before we’re due to discuss during class. And I’m sure you’ve got your makeup work by now.”

                “Oh—yeah, I picked them up,” he tries for a lighthearted chuckle that sounded more like an energetic wheeze. “Enough to keep me occupied, for sure.”

                She nods, folding her sunglasses into a black leather case. “Then I’ll leave you to it—I’ll be in the back room praying to whatever divine entities are out there that your classmates remember which direction stage right is. Holler with your inside voice if you need me.”

                He watches her strut back towards the stage, heels somehow still making an audible impact on the carpet, peacoat slung carefully over one arm, and a warm rush of a weirdly desperate and urgent gratitude slams against his chest and up his throat, and he just has to tell her before it chokes him. “Ms. Albright!” he hollered with a decidedly non-inside voice.

                She half turns with an arched eyebrow and pursed lips, concern drawn across her forehead. “Yes, Mr. Spier?”

                “I just, uh,” he swallows a dry nothingness and shoves his hands in his pockets, crushing his fingers against his thighs, because for some reason this feels like the only time he’ll ever get to say this, and this might be the most important thing he’s said in years, maybe the most important thing he’ll ever get to say, and he knows he won’t be able to say it right, won’t be able to fully convey what he wants to let her know. “Thank you for—for yesterday.”

                Her smile is stern and small. “You’re worth it, Simon. You know that right?”

                They stare at each other for a moment, and it’s a moment that feels both enormous and clichéd, and something that slips out of his grasp the harder he tries to hold onto it. He gives it up, and feels weirdly scolded and embarrassed. “I, uh—” he sputters.

                “On second thought,” she holds a hand up, and his eyes lock on her smooth palms, “we’ll hold off on that question until the end of the year. Capiche?”

                “Yeah,” he says with total and absolute confidence.

                She doesn’t seem to buy it. "Get back to work, Spear."

                The rest of the morning passed much like yesterday, and the following morning, and the following morning, and the morning after that, but with extra Precaution: he made it a point to hunch as far down in his seat as possible without completely sliding off it or breaking his neck, to be the first to get to class and the first to leave, and to keep his eyes down and his hoody up, walking as quickly and inconspicuously as possible past his useless locker for dear fucking life. It’s also helped that The Cafeteria Debacle also confirmed for the majority of the student body that not only was he gay, but he was also totally unhinged—they’re giving him a wide enough berth that made it feel like he was parting the Red Sea, or otherwise infested with the bubonic plague. He’s trying not to think too hard about whether this is a good or a bad thing—he’d do anything to be invisible at this point.

                But he wasn’t invisible—he could still feel the itchy burn of eyes scrutinizing the back of his neck, his face, his hands that still just wouldn't stop fucking shaking. He finds himself pressing his arms so tightly against his sides when he walks through the hallways that he can feel his ribs compressing his lungs, shoulders turning so far inward that a dull ache started blooming at the small of his back. It was like someone was going to grab his arm, shove him to the floor, shank him with a knife at any minute—and maybe he was being melodramatic, but he couldn’t honestly convince himself that it was just paranoia. Sometimes he'd get a momentary rush of stupid, angry bravery and look up to meet their gaze—and sometimes they'd have the decency to turn their head around and laugh at him with their friends in an audible whisper. But sometimes they kept staring, like they didn't care that he knew they were looking at him, like he was an animal at the zoo that was meant to be observed. And he wasn't sure if that made him more angry or afraid.

                He also hasn’t seen Leah, Nick, and Abby. Or Bram. But, then again, he hasn’t been keeping his eyes up long enough to see much of anything else besides his dirty shoelaces and the red stain on his shoe that may or may not be blood. He's also never been so productive or this focused on schoolwork in his entire life. Which was what he was doing, right now, in the middle of an empty theater, during lunch. He’s missing out on Friday (Fell into the Back of the Freezer Since the Ice Age) Pie Day,  but it’s quiet, and dim, and safe enough that he could unfold his limbs, spine and collarbone cracking with the sudden reprieve. And that’s a silver lining, isn’t it? Maybe potentially passing his classes, in spite of being possibly hopelessly behind? He was totally still capable of finding silver linings in silver lining-less situations—making lemonade and rising from ashes and…it’s probably just better this way.

                If only his stomach would stop gnawing on itself long enough for him to make sense of what the fuck _x_ was supposed to equal in this equation that honestly had more letters in it than any math problem should. 

                  But it’s a vaguely comfortable new normal. He finally managed to accept that it's only slightly sad that his math homework has more words than texts he's sent since December. He's slowly learning how to ignore his stomach's angry wailing. He's hunched down long enough to achieve semi-invisibility. Or maybe he's just developed a huge body scab that's turned him into an itchy, stinging, oblivious casualty of the Creekwood gossip mill. He could almost see himself doing this for the rest of the year. Which was saying something.

                Which was also why he almost fell off the stage when his murderer suddenly materialized at the end of the aisle, calling his name, because of fucking course he forgot to lock the door.

                He's scrambling to his feet and yelling something like "sorry" and "I'll be right out" and "no one’s here,” because maybe he can convince them into thinking he was a trick of the light, or a ghost, and maybe Ms. Albright won't not trust him ever again or get fired because he forgot to lock the fucking door, and who was he kidding to let his guard down and think that he'd make it out of this year alive--

                "--mon, Simon, no, wait, it's just Bram, it's me, just...c'mon, please calm down--"

                And it was Just Bram, standing still enough to be one of those cardboard celebrity cut-outs in the middle of the aisle with a tray of soggy cafeteria food. The whites of his eyes are gleaming in the dim light, and he looked spooked, and a little pained, like he saw the ghost of a little kid ask if his parents really did leave him behind at the mall, or a rabid dog just writhe itself to death. And Simon would be embarrassed that he's given Bram the misfortune of witnessing Resident Gay and Unstable Mess Simon Spear Totally Melt the Fuck Down twice, but it's _Just Bram_ —maybe on the verge of a panic attack, but not a murderer, or the Simon impersonator, or his disappointed parents, or someone with the power or the pettiness to fire Ms. Albright.

                And so, since he's so desperate for silver linings, Simon decides to cough out a casual "Hey, Bram" into his scabbed over fist, and rearrange his scabbed over limbs back into a casual sitting position, and offer a totally cool and casual "What're you doing here?" with as much success as his shaky hands and 90-year-old, lifelong-chain-smoker old man's voice can manage.

                "I haven't seen you at lunch lately. And I just…wondered where you went."

                “Oh,” he croaks, very casually, “well, you found me.”

                “Yeah,” Bram laughs, unconvincingly, “I guess I did.”

                They stare at each other for some very long and uncasual moments before Bram starts to inch towards the stage with small, wary steps, like he’s approaching a hissing cat stuck up in a tree with its hackles up and claws dug deep into the bark. Simon retracts his fingernails from the peeling wood of the stage and digs them into his palms. Bram comes close enough that Simon can see his Adam’s apple bob as he tilts his head back, the thin cord running up his neck that disappeared into the sharp ridge of his jaw.

                The slice of blueberry pie on his tray wiggles gelatinously as he jerks an elbow towards the stage. “Can I come up?”

                “Sure,” he tells the blueberry pie. “If you want?”

                Bram sets the tray next to Simon and deftly pulls himself up onto the stage, settling down with his legs crossed on the other side. He nudges a plate of deflated tater tots towards Simon. “Have some.”

                “Oh no, I’m good—“

                “Simon. Have a tater tot,” he looks dead serious, “please.”

                Simon takes a single tater tot with a grimace. “Thanks.”

                A rather confusing and uncomfortable silence stretches around them. At some point, Bram bites into a baby carrot, and the loud crunch escapes obscenely even through his closed mouth. Simon rolls his tater tot between his fingertips until they’re caked with grease and overcooked potato.             

                “At least take the pie, then, if you’re not gonna eat the tater tot. I know they tend to be on the stale side.”

                “No,” Simon sighs, “it’s O.K.—”               

                “Simon, come on—” 

                “Why are you here, Bram?” 

                Bram stops chewing on his carrot stick.

                It didn't really make any sense to be antagonistic to one of the few people who were still willing to talk to him. And offer him their lunch. But here he was, again, annoyed for no good reason, ungratefully pushing Bram away--and it's like he's stuck being this selfish, stuck blackmailing his friends, ignoring his mom, forcing his problems onto Ms. Albright, waiting for things to "get better" just in case he didn't have to--

                "I'm here because I haven't seen you since Monday," he says slowly, calmly, like he's talking someone down from the ledge. "And I know you haven't been eating. So could you please just take the pie?"

                Simon takes the pie. 

                They continue eating in silence. The pie crust is stiff, and the filling tooth achingly cold. Simon holds a bite up against the roof of his mouth, letting it congeal into a heavy, tasteless mass. Dust motes swirled around them in a slow descent, catching on his eyelashes and prickling his nose, and he wondered if he could stay like this for so long that he started eating more dust than pie, that he himself became caked with dust both inside and out, became nothing but a pile of dust waiting for someone to notice and come to finally sweep him into a bin. 

                "I'm sorry, Simon." 

                Bram is staring out into the theater, maybe also watching the dust motes reclaim Simon as their own. Simon sighs quietly, and it’s like the weak light in bending away from him in a curl of particles. "I already told you, Bram--you don't have to be sorry."

                "No, I--I know. I just--" he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face, "nevermind. Are you gonna be here next week? For lunch?"

                "Probably." 

                "O.K."

                Simon has eaten maybe a fifth of the pie by the time the bell rings. They walk down the aisle in silence. They huddle three feet apart from each other in the alcove of the entrance as Simon locks the door behind them. Bram is sucking in his lip again, draining it white as he scans the hallway slowly filling with sharp bursts of laughter and the hard slap of rubber on concrete, the ringing screech and clang of rusty lockers. Might as well spare Bram from the gossip mill while he can. 

                "Thanks for dropping by," he says, as brightly as the theater aisle lights probably designed to be point of no return for dropped change. "And for the pie." 

                "Yeah, no problem." Bram's still gnawing at his lip, eyes darting from locker to locker. "I, uh, think I got to--" 

                "I won't keep you," Simon's already curling back inwards, shifting several notches down, locking his limbs in place. "I'll see you around?" 

                "Yeah, I--" Bram looks back at Simon, and he starts—like maybe he didn't expect to see this hunched thing standing next to him, or maybe he forgot that Simon was even there. "Oh. You got—here," and Bram plucks a napkin from his tray of mostly uneaten food and reaches out partway before pausing, letting it dangle between them.

                "What?"

                "There's some blueberry," he says absentmindedly as he tosses the tray in the garbage, "on your lips."

                "Oh." Simon cautiously wipes his mouth, smearing a streak of biro blue on the paper. "Thanks."

                "Yeah," Bram gives him a small smile, blood rushing back into his lower lip. He's already stepping back into the crowd.  "I'll see you around. Eat something when you get home, yeah?"

                Simon stands there for a few moments, breathing slowly. No one passes by, and no one notices that he's there. He licks his lips once—too sweet, and the wrong side of sour. He puts his hood up and heads to class. 

                Fuck the color blue, honestly.

\----- 

                Simon manages to get through the rest of day without speaking a word, or interacting with anyone else. He’s maybe about 40% caught up with his classes (notwithstanding _Death of a Salesman_ , the tattered remains of which he’s too afraid to dig out of his backpack), he’s got the whole weekend to avoid his parents and commit himself to voluntary confinement in his room. Which he thought was a feat to be proud of, if he didn’t think too much about it. He might’ve even considered it a good day, relative to everything else.             

                Except for the part where he’s tripping in the middle of the hallway in peak foot traffic as everyone’s swarming towards the doors. 

                For a moment it feels like he’s underwater, the floor wavering and blurry as all sound condensed into a single, high-pressure roar in his ears. But then the world tilts back upright, and there’s only fading laughter and the low clack and splash of a wet mop. He picks himself back up, scabs and bruises shifting and cracking like a second skin. 

                “Are you alright there, son?” 

                The janitor has one wizened hand on his hip, a hard frown tugging his entire face downwards. Simon doesn’t know his name; he’s been going to this school for three years, and this might be the worst thing in the list of horrible things he’s done in the past year. “I’m fine. Thanks, mister...uh—” 

                “Marvin. Call me Marvin.”

                “Marvin. Sorry for…I should’ve asked.” 

                “It’s alright.” Marvin eyes him with an incisiveness that makes Simon want to shrink deeper into his hoody. “Did you trip?” 

                “Oh, yeah,” he laughs very convincingly. “I’m just. A little clumsy.” 

                “You don’t seem like a very clumsy type.”

                He laughs again. “It’s been a long day.”

                Marvin does not laugh. He lifts a wet floor sign from his cart and places it in the middle of the hallway. “I’ve been here a long time, and I’ve seen a lot of things,” he tilts his mop handle towards Simon, shaking it lightly. “Remember that. You got it?”

                “Yeah,” Simon’s backing away slowly from the widening arcs of the mop, glistening under the fluorescent lights. “Yeah, I got it.” He doesn’t get it. “I think.” 

                Marvin shakes his head. His frown seems to have lifted into something more tired and worn. “Have a good weekend, Simon.”

                “Thanks—you too, Marvin.”

                The parking lot is blissfully mostly empty of students. Simon stands there for a few blank moments, blinking into the sunlight streaming directly into his eyes. He made it through the week, miraculously. And if he doesn’t fuck up, there’s only 56 or so more to go. Not counting summer.               

                The sun is shining. The road is clear. And Simon doesn’t want to go home. 

                He shoots a brief text to his parents ( _“Going on a walk, I’ll be back in a few hours_ ”) and heads off in the opposite direction. 

                Simon’s certain that he’s driven this way before, but everything’s unrecognizable at the ground level. There’s newly planted saplings and patches of yellow grass, “Please Do Not Poop Here” signs and dropped Polly Pocket dolls. Shards of glass half buried in the dirt still manage to catch the light. There are more smiling real estate agents plastered on lawn signs than he remembers.               

                But it’s nice. Sweat is beading at the back of his neck, and his legs are starting to burn, but he feels less achy and dead. His heart manages to leap into his mouth at only every other mom van or used car that streams past in a gust of exhaust fumes. 

                Neighborhoods enclosed by arching shade trees gradually stretch and harden into squat brick-and-mortar stores and light box signs placed uncomfortably close to low slung transmission lines. He passes a metro PCS and a Taco Bell, a whole stretch of stores selling individual automobile parts (Great Upholstry, Xpress Oil Change, Tuff Tires), an Ace Hardware, among way too many other hardware stores in one block, a pawn shop very aptly called “PAWN,” and—

                The Waffle House.

                He’s standing at the corner of PAWN, and he’s looking through a pane of glass at old fashioned diner stools and plastic tables worn opaque by hundreds of elbows and spilled milkshakes and splattered ketchup. He sees the sign’s clean black lettering slanting off the glass and he sees his own reflection, wide eyed and dark and ghastly. He sees a green light and a balding man barreling towards him with his mouth open in rage, pointing a gun. He sees Leah, and Nick, and Abby throwing fries at each other, mouths unhinged with laughter. He sees Smith and Arnold nursing a plate of hamburgers, nose bruised purple and blue. And they see him, too.              

                Simon breaks into a run. 

                He runs, and runs, and runs, and runs, and he runs the red light and there’s honking cars, and he runs through a pile of broken glass and stumbles over a paver that’s been lifted by a tree root, and he runs until he doesn’t feel suffocated by the crush of familiar buildings and familiar faces and familiar voices yelling that he’s—he runs until he doesn’t know where he is anymore, until his body folds in half, heaving and sticky and cold. 

                The sun hangs lower in the sky. Cars stream by, roaring in crescendo and fading into a quiet hum. The Simon has his hands on his knees, veins swollen blue and glistening with sweat. He doesn’t know where he is.

                Cars are streaming by. Chain link and dry grass line the open road, just a few steps away. Simon presses his palms against his knees until it stings, sharp and loud. He’s only barely made it through the week. He hasn’t made it through the week at all. And who is he to think that he could make it through another year and a half? He starts counting down.

                Mrs. Albright won’t have to risk her job anymore. 

                His mom won’t need to worry anymore. 

                His dad won’t be disappointed.

                Nora can stop feeling guilty for him.

                Bram can stop feeling sorry for him.

                Leah, and Nick, and Abby won’t have to see him ever again.

                And everyone else won’t even notice.

                He’s looking into the open road, waiting for a truck to come by. He steps off the sidewalk into the grass—and then his phone rings.

                A calendar notification—“Ethan Mtg.”

                He stares at his phone until the screen turns black. He snaps his eyes shut before he can see his reflection again. A truck roars by, long metal pipe coughing up a grey cloud of smoke.

                Simon opens up his calendar, puts the address in Google Maps, and starts walking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaand here's another one?
> 
> The next chapter should (fingers crossed very tightly) be up relatively sooner!
> 
> As always, I very much welcome any and all feedback and critique. Please tell me what you think! Thank you all for your patience, and for taking the time to read and comment and kudos and all that you do--I greatly appreciate it!


	5. 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which things get a little more gay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things get a wee bit different--though we're still sad af, of course.

               The address on Ethan's poster, per Google Maps, led him to a mostly nondescript brick wall at the end of a short alley. He wasn't sure what he was expecting (rainbow flags? Glitter? Drag queens standing guard?).

                He pulled the poster out of his back pocket, already crinkled and torn and slightly wet at the edges. Gross, and very reminiscent of his life at the moment. Ethan's number is written in blue, clean lines at the bottom of the page.

                Simon takes a breath, and decides to send a text. " _Hey Ethan, this is Simon. I'm in front of a brick wall? Sorry, I think I'm lost."_ He pockets his phone and stares at the chipped grout. Graffiti and gum are scattered haphazardly in every interstice and vaguely smooth surface. His eye catches on two lines of purple spray paint that curve on one end like a heart, and extend in parallel towards a brick that's broken in half, such that the empty space would presumably be the--O.K. he sees it now. Cool. Great.

                "If you run your hand quickly up and down those particular bricks a few times, the wall will open up to Diagon Alley."

                Ethan stands at the lip of the alley, arms crossed and eyebrow raised. There’s a long, long moment where Simon can feel him taking in how sweaty and exhausted and Terrible he looks. But he doesn’t make a comment, like maybe he could tell that this wasn’t just a bad wardrobe day, and Simon’s stupidly overwhelmed with gratitude. He still would've crawled into the nearest hole with plans to never come back out, if not for the twitch at the corner of Ethan's smirk. Simon's own lips curl up of their own accord.

                "I thought that was at Platform 9¾."

                Now Ethan was not smirking, or smiling. "Have you even _read_ Harry Potter?" He has one arched hand on his chest, like he's holding back his heart from bursting forth in outrage. "At _least_ tell me you've watched the films."

                "It was a long time ago!"

                Ethan shakes his head and turns back out the alley. He's walking so swiftly that Simon has to break into a jog to catch up. "You're lucky I am yet sympathetic towards the uncultured boors of suburban Georgia."

                "Thanks. I think?"

                "You're welcome," Ethan snorts. They're walking along the side of a nondescript brick building, and there's patches of grass and dandelions peaking up through the cracks. Stray pieces of gravel crunch under their shoes.

                "Sorry I got lost."

                "You weren't lost."

                "I wasn't?"

                "No. You actually followed the directions very well," They round the corner, and continue walking down another long strip of nondescript brick wall. "Good job."

                "It seems like I was pretty far off."

                "As intended. If it makes you feel better, we were waiting for you in case you did get lost."

                "Sorry I'm late."

                "And you're not late, either." Ethan stops abruptly in front of a very nondescript and indistinguishable part of the wall. He pulls out a key and slots it into a small brass lock set in between two very unremarkable bricks. "Don't look for things to apologize for, Simon."

                A whole section of the wall swings back to reveal a concrete corridor lit by what appears to be a single, flickering light bulb.

                "What," says Simon very appropriately.

                "Yeah," says Ethan with disdain, stepping into what would more accurately be called a slightly brighter patch of utter darkness. "I've been asking for a floral throw rug or at least some kind of waterproof welcome mat for the past several hundred meetings. Clearly you can see that my opinion is highly valued in this space."

                Simon wasn't sure if he was actually hearing the sound of slowly dripping water and scuttling, multi-legged creatures, or if he was just hallucinating from hunger and dehydration. Probably both.

                "Come on, Simon. We're not going to waterboard you."

                Simon follows Ethan to what may or may be his final resting place.

                There was actually more than one flickering light bulb dangling from the ceiling—they were just spaced apart from each other widely enough that there was barely any overlap between their already very weak beams. The corridor also wasn't as long as it seemed—after what felt like maybe one and a half minutes of semi-restrained terror, Ethan is putting a key to another slot and opening a door into a room of maybe fifteen or so teenagers sprawled across an assortment of chairs, tables, and a large rug that still had the Ikea tag on it. An oversized rainbow flag stretched from floor to ceiling, sharing the wall with an assortment of other multicolored flags, including a skull and crossbones. For some reason.

                There are more dress shirts and slacks than he expected. And less rainbows and undercuts and septum piercings. Was that a faint undertone of weed, or just the mulch in the succulent pots colonizing the shelves hanging above his head? He runs his nails over his palms and tells himself to stop stereotyping.

                "Ethan's back!" someone screamed.

                "Took him long enough," a guy in a pink and neon blue polka dot tie and positively scintillating loafers leaps over a kid applying a liberal amount of glitter glue on a very exuberant picket sign (“GOD SAID ADAM AND EVE, SO I DID BOTH MOTHERFUCKERS”), clapping Ethan on the shoulder. "Did you give another rousing speech on the heinous injustice of our lack of floral throw rug?"

                "Shut _up,_ Miguel, oh my god," Ethan gripes good-naturedly.

                Miguel does not have an undercut, but he does have a streak of white in his shaggy black hair. "Dyed, to better manifest my old soul," he extends a hand and smiles slow and wide. "Miguel. He/him. Nice to meet you, Simon."

                "Likewise. I, uh...sorry, was there a dress code?"

                Miguel laughs, teeth gleaming. "Nah, a couple of us just came from a church service. Who'da thought that, like, a third of the youth band--"

                "And a 1/20 of the choir!" chimes another girl in slacks and a bright red bowtie. Also without a septum piercing.

                "--and 1/20 of the choir are totally and irredeemably gay as fuck?"

                "And trans!"

                "And bi!"

                "And ace, Miguel--don't you go erasing us!"

                "Basically," Miguel rolls his eyes, "we have maybe 99.9% of the spectrum represented in this parish alone, corrupting the Christian youth."

                "The more inclusive term we use now is _queer,_ Miguel," Ethan sniffs, eyeing Miguel's crumpled dress shirt and permanently bent tie. "And personally, I think _freshly pressed_ slacks would be a great way to bring more class and order to our very humble proceedings."

                "But throw rug first, right?"

                Ethan sighs, weary and put-upon. "Yes, yes, throw rug first of all. Well, since everyone's here,” his voice sounds confidently across the room, “let's do some introductions. Name, pronouns, school. Optional fun fact if you feel so inclined to share. Miguel?"

                "You're senior president, Ethan--"

                " _Co-_ president and your senior by _three days_ Miguel--"

                "--so, therefore, you should have the honors of introducing yourself first."

                Ethan lowers his head into an arched hand, mouth twitching. "Ethan. He/him, they/their pronouns. Creekwood. De facto president by function, but we don’t do official titles. Miguel?"

                "I'm Miguel," he salutes the room with two fingers to his temple. "He/him. North Atlanta. Junior co-president by function. Ish. My fun fact is that I'm three days younger than Ethan."

                Giggles break out, and Ethan is very bad at looking murderously at Miguel.

                They go around the room, and there's Amélie with the red bow tie and Paul in bright yellow suspenders; Sasha with the messy bob and Callie with even messier sneakers; Larry with dreadlocks trailing down a satin gown, and Bill with (finally) a septum piercing. Simon's trying to hold their faces and their names and their pronouns in his head, mapping them across Georgia, and there's more people than he realizes packed into this far from dingy room, and his chest feels so full.

                "I'm Cal--"

                Say _what--_

                "--he/him. Creekwood. I play the piano?"

                "Like a champ, he does!" crows Georgiana, who plays the organ in the youth corrupting church band.

                Cal just shakes his head bashfully. Simon is staring, he knows he's staring, but he can't stop staring, and now Cal's staring back and he's smiling slowly and giving him a very small wave, and--

                "--and Simon, our honorary visitor and perhaps newest member with, dare I say, a unanimously agreed upon sexiest smoulder, am I right kids?"

                "Miguel, shut the _fuck_ up, oh my _god--"_

                And now he's reeling back into a room full of queer kids staring expectantly and wolf whistling at him, a room where Ethan curses, Jesus loves the Sexually Deviant, and Cal Price is undoubtedly queer. Or an ally. Or a hallucination.

                Simon shakes his head very Noticeably, and is pleased that he doesn't have to try too hard to smile. "Hi, everyone--"

                "Hi, Simon," everyone choruses.

                "Hi, sexy hoody man!" Miguel cheers. He buckles over when Ethan not very gently kicks him in the shin.

                "--uh, yes, I'm Simon. He/him pronouns. Creekwood."

                "Fun Fact!"

                "Which is still _optional,_ children."

                "I, uh," Simon tries to remember something about himself that was fun, back when he considered himself fun and interesting and a fully functioning human being. He digs and digs and digs and comes up blank—and they’re staring expectantly, and he’s frozen, his mouth pathetically dry, needles running hot down his spine, and he can’t believe he’s changed so much. “Um.”

                “You can skip if you want, Simon—”    

                “Didn’t you like Panic! at the Disco, at one point?” Cal chimes in like a fucking saint.

                “Oh, yeah,” Simon is awash in overwhelming and embarrassing relief. "I listen to Panic! at the Disco.”

                "Holy fuck, _yes_ , isn't Brendon Urie _fucking gorgeous--"_

                " _Alright_ \--before we further awaken Callie's full unadulterated passion for all things Panic," Ethan gently steers Simon towards a seat, which happens to be next to Cal, who is definitely not a hallucination, "we’ve got updates. Agenda item one, Miguel?"

                Turns out there's a lot of items on The Gay Agenda ("We were thinking of renaming ourselves 'The Queer Agenda,' but thought that 'Gay Agenda' would better serve to throw off the straights." "As per the first tenet of Glam Tzu's _Art of War_ : one must confuse the enemy with deceitful and ironic branding—" "Miguel, _please--"_ ), including opening a GSA in every high school in Georgia, campaigning for explicit non-discrimination laws, banning conversion therapy, and pushing for staff anti-bullying training and mental health provisions in high schools. They’ve been planning awareness campaigns and fundraisers and opening safe spaces and starting support groups, and—

                It's mind-reelingly ambitious and utopic. But they've already opened three GSAs, and someone's mom is member of the Georgia state legislature, and someone else's dad is the first cousin second removed of the step-sister of the apparently very close friend and exclusive confidant of the mayor of Atlanta. ("Which totally counts, because they're BFFs, and that's very close proximity to power--I would know as an aspiring Instagram influencer." Miguel looks expectantly at Ethan, who rolls his eyes and writes it down on the whiteboard). There's a map of Georgia on the wall, with scattered rainbow pins marking the various school districts and high schools they’re in progress of infiltrating, and it looks like they’re making actual real progress.

                Simon is not going to fucking cry.          

                Shortly after Ethan’s updates, Miguel says he has an inspiring update of his own, and while he spends the next ten minutes scrolling furiously through his phone to find some “ultra mega gay af meme that will have y’all hashtag dead,” they all devolve into a room full of teenagers eating assorted junk food and sitting in all possible permutations of sitting in chair without actually sitting properly in a chair. Like a disorganized game of Twister where the main goal was to entangle as many limbs together as possible.             

                “I was surprised at how touchy-feely everyone was, too,” Cal shrugs, opening a pack of fruit snacks. “Then again, Miguel was campaigning for a group slumber slash rave party at the first meeting I went to, so maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised.” He pops an orange gummy into his mouth and tilts the bag towards Simon. “Fruit snack? They’re organic.”

                Simon takes a purple blob that looks more like a scab than a cluster of grapes. It’s a little powdery and sticks at the hard-to-reach parts of his teeth, but tastes vaguely grape-flavored, which was satisfactory enough. They chew quietly together, and Simon can’t tell if it’s awkward or not.

                So of course he decides to awkwardly clear his throat of semi-artificial fruit snack and very smoothly invade Cal’s privacy. "I didn't know you were...uh—"

                "Bi. Yeah," Cal chuckles quietly, yet again saving Simon from his inability to form a complete sentence, “definitely not out yet. But maybe when we open a GSA at Creekwood."

                "We're opening a GSA at Creekwood?"

                "It's a work in progress," Cal nods, rolling a green blob between his fingers. "Ethan's spearheading that. We've hit a bit of a roadblock, since you apparently need fifteen members to open a new club." He snorts so explosively that they both jump. He self-consciously slaps a hand over his mouth. "You can imagine how well recruitment has been going."

                "Well," Simon laughs as encouragingly as laughs could possibly be, "at least you have one more person on board."

                "Yeah," his hand falls away from his face. He’s just starting to smile, and it’s like someone is pressing their thumbs to his cheeks, pushing them up towards his eyes and leaving soft hollows that frame his lips. "I guess we do."

                Something warm shudders through Simon’s body and settles on his chest. He shoves a possibly lemon-flavored gummy into his mouth, and Cal laughs at the apparently funny face he’s making. Which is—very O.K.

                "Alright, alright, _alright_ , children—meeting adjourned!” Ethan is swatting a hand-held lesbian flag at Miguel, who is, for some reason, extending a toxically neon orange tongue towards Ethan’s arm. “See you next week—slushies are officially banned, by the way!”

                “Aw, Ethan,” Miguel lisps, most certainly dangling a trail of drool dangerously close to Ethan’s freshly pressed shirt, “come on—”

                Ethan politely shoves himself through the small crowd of people filtering towards the door, making his way towards Simon and Cal, who also happen to be as far from Miguel as possible. He’s slightly disheveled, but his eyes are bright and exuding pride. His posture's both impeccably straight and the most relaxed Simon's ever seen him. "So," he drawls, cooly flicking an invisible particle of dust, or maybe spittle, from his shoulder, "what do you think?"

                "This is amazing, Ethan. Like, seriously crazy amazing," Simon gushes eloquently. "I can't believe I didn't hear about this before."

                "Yeah, sorry about that," Ethan says apologetically, "we try to keep things on the DL to protect our members. Some of us aren't out and puking rainbows yet." Cal crinkles his packet of fruit snacks very loudly, dropping a red blob on the ground. His shoulders are drawn up to his ears as he quickly bends down, muttering a quiet apology that’s both embarrassed and guilty. Simon’s reminded of himself, before the whole Blue debacle, and for a brief moment, he feels grateful that he no longer has to hide that part of himself anymore. But then he remembers the bandages wrapped around his palms, and how he ended up at this meeting in the first place. He smiles weakly at Cal, who’s wrapping the gummy into the plastic, fingertips pressed white against each fold.

                Ethan, to his credit, rolls his eyes kindly. "We respect that everyone should take as much time as they need. Because, well," he sighs like he’s carrying the weight of every closeted queer child on his back, throwing an invisible mane of luscious hair over his shoulder, "not everyone was born this fabulous off the bat."

                They all laugh, and Simon feels so full. "Thank you for inviting me."            

                Ethan pushes his glasses up his nose and positively preens. "Thank _you_ for stopping by. Is it safe to assume that we have you on board?"

                "Definitely, yeah, I--for sure. I'd love to help in any way I can."

                "Good," Ethan says softly. "Very good."

                "Watch out, Si Pie--he's going to use that Smolder That Launched a Thousand Ships of yours to fund his throw rug campaign!"

                "Miguel, oh my _fucking_ god--" Ethan stalks off, rolling his eyes so hard the whites shine almost as brightly as Miguel's perfect teeth.

                Simon and Cal watch Miguel fail to defend himself against Ethan's very agile swats and shin kicks. They're both smiling, in spite of Miguel's cries of pain. "Ten bucks they bone before we graduate," says Cal thoughtfully.

                Simon chokes on his spit. He's even more surprised he still has fluids in his body. " _What?_ "            

                "Is that too late?" Cal is looking at him, and even his stupid, self-satisfied smirk looks sweet.

                "I'd give them _maybe_ 'til the end of the year."

                "Calendar or school year?"

                "Hm," Simon strokes his chin, and Miguel throws an arm around Ethan's shoulders who is definitely not trying too hard to shrug him off, "school year."

                "O.K.," Cal nods, tossing his carefully wrapped gummy into the trash can across the room, prompting Simon to look at him like he made the fucking winning half-court shot, which is a metaphor that doesn’t make sense because he absolutely hates sports, "Another $10 we catch them making out then totally deny anything is going on before the next Panic album drops."

                "But that's, like, three months from now. What if someone leaks it?"

                "Exactly," Cal taps his forehead, eyebrows waggling. And it’s so stupid and boyish and—

                Simon shoves him on the shoulder, and they're both laughing. Then he replays this exchange a few times in his head and remembers, "Hey, how'd you know I like Panic! at the Disco?"

                "Oh," Cal shrugs, "I overheard you and Leah talk about them during rehearsal one time."

                "Oh," and he suddenly hears her cackling as they throw fries at Nick and Abby, feels her hair tickling his nose as they spend another night sprawled across his bed, sees the hurt he drew across her face, pulling it tightly closed, "that makes sense."

                Simon can feel Cal looking at him, and he wants to make eye contact like a normal perfectly functional human being, because everything was going so well, was finally looking up—but he can't look away from his hands gripping his knees, from the dirty, curling ends of the band-aids peeking out, still holding his palms together. Cal clears his throat and pushes himself off the table. "Where're you parked? I'll walk you to your car."

                "Oh, I walked over here. I don't have--" No one knows, Ms. Albright said, the students don't know-- "I can't drive, right now."

                "You _walked_ all the way over here?" Cal gasps. "That's, like, two hours from Creekwood."

                "I guess I just got…really into walking?" Simon says weakly, clearly not very into walking.

                There's an awful moment where Cal looks horribly, terribly sad and angry and confused, eyebrows drawing together and lips pressed in a tight line like he’s holding something in his mouth, and Simon hopes he doesn't ask, because he doesn't know how he can really answer without completely exposing just how terrible he actually is.

                But then Cal shakes his head once, twice, and abruptly takes Simon by the hand. His Really Fucking Deep Dimples have resurfaced, and his eyes are kind and very, very blue. And green—he didn’t know his eyes are also green. He doesn't say anything about the bandages. He doesn't say anything at all, as he drags Simon out of the room, through the corridor that no throw rug could make less creepy, and into a shockingly chilly evening. They both shiver, watching small clouds of breath dissipate slowly. It was both exhilarating and disappointing, like they had just left Diagon Alley and were resigning themselves to another depressing night at the cupboard under the stairs.

                Cal laughs quietly. “Don’t tell me—did Ethan tell you to stroke the purple graffiti penis, too?”

                “Wait,” Simon manages to choke out in horror, “does he say this to every person he invites here?”

                “Apparently so,” Cal is still smiling and holding his hand, and now they’re walking side by side along the building and cutting across the field, soaking their shoes wet and cold with dew, and he didn’t know that Cal also had birthmarks running down the slope of his neck, that his hair had a hint of something citrus and sweet—“Should we tell him that’s borderline hazing?”

                 “But then what if he decides to do something worse? Like, trap them in the corridor until they knit him a throw rug?”

                “And not just any throw rug—a _penis-shaped_ one.”

                “With flower print—”

                “—and sequins!”

                They spend the rest of the walk to Cal’s car thinking of ways to make a glamorous penis-shaped throw rug, trying and failing to bite back honest to fucking god _giggles_ and it’s so stupid and boyish and dumb and—

                Cal's car is small and beat up, with an evenly distributed mixture of bumper stickers from national parks, radio stations, and puns neatly covering the trunk. Simon lets go of his hand. He starts to run it through his hair, before coming to a wincing stop at how greasy and coarse with sweat it's become. He must smell absolutely rank. "Well, I guess I'll start heading back--"

                "Simon," Cal rolled his eyes, "get in the car."

                "Oh, you don't have to--"

                Cal opens the passenger side door and pushes Simon in with a hand at the small of his back. "Dude, I _want_ to--I'll play some Panic and you can try to convince me they're better than My Chem."

                Simon gets in an indignant "Hey, I never said they were _better_ than My Chem--" before Cal slams the door, shaking his head. He's shaking his head as he walks around to the driver's side, and he's still shaking his head as he gets in and scrolls through his phone, face illuminated a brilliant white and blue, before handing it to Simon with Spotify open. There's a lot of sepia profiles of old white guys. And also the guy who scored the Miyazaki films. And My Chem.

                "To be honest, 95% of what I listen to is hardcore classical--hardcore meaning, like, obscure way long dead Hungarian composers," he says a little self-consciously, "but I'm open to expanding my horizons."

                "O.K.," Simon is smiling brighter than the fucking moon, "we can definitely do that."

                Cal starts the car, and he's smiling, too. "Put in your address, and start educating me."

                They manage to bust through the greatest hits of the Emo Golden Age of the early 2000s ("O.K., so maybe I can understand the Panic hype" "Just wait until you see his _forearms_ , Cal"), along with an assortment of songs by way long dead Hungarian and Russian composers with huge hands (Cal's tapping his fingers against the dashboard in increasingly complicated rhythms and motions, nodding his head like they're at a mild-mannered death metal concert. "Oh my god, Rachmaninoff is straight _fire_ \--his hands are, like, freaking _huge."_ And now he's demonstrating how huge Rach-a-moni-something's hands are by stretching his thumb and pink into one very long, flat line, and Simon does not mention what that may or may not imply, because he does not want Cal to stop).

                When they roll up to his house, Cal turns the music down and just smiles at him. "I feel much more cultured now. Thanks, Simon."

                "Likewise," says Simon. He really doesn't want to get out of the car. He wants to go on a road trip with Cal and never come back. "Yeah, likewise," he repeats logically. "Thanks for the ride."

                Cal's smile shrinks just a fraction, turning shy and warm. "Anytime," he says quietly.

                They're smiling at each other and Simon's heart is pounding so embarrassingly hard that Cal can probably hear it. He's a little dizzy, and he's maybe 85% sure that it's not from dehydration. Cal's eyes flick towards his lips, Simon is 98% sure he's not imagining this, this is really happening, he can't believe this is happening—

                "Simon? Is that you?"

                His mom is backlit from the porch light, but he knows there’s a frown etched deep into her face, pinching everything inwards and pulling down.

                Cal grabs his hand and gives him one gentle squeeze. "I'll see you tomorrow? Maybe?"

                "Yeah," Simon squeezes back, desperately fighting to hold onto the warmth that’s already seeping out of his body, the cold weight resurfacing from the top of his spine to the center of his chest, “yeah, definitely."

                He stands on the lawn and waves until Cal turns the corner, until he can’t hear his tires crunching over gravel and it’s just faint crickets and his chattering teeth. His palms are still tingling.

                “Simon? Who was that?”

                He takes in a breath and turns around, pushing the corners of his lips up. “Just a friend, Mom.”

                “O.K.,” she says quietly, sadly. “That’s good.”

                “Yeah,” he whispers, and he stares at his wet and muddy shoes because he can’t stand to look at her sad and disappointed face anymore, at how hard she tries and how hard he’s making it for her. He follows her back into the foyer and he’s thinking that he should take his shoes off, because it’s rude to trail mud into the house, and then his dad emerges from the living room.

                “Where have you been, Simon?”

                His mom sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose, like she was expecting this. “Jack, he was with a friend—”

                "That's not what he said when he texted us, oh, _seven hours ago_."

                "Jack--" his mom says, voice raising in warning.

                "Where were you, Simon?"

                Simon has a vague thought pushing through the flood warnings sounding through his head, that maybe if he told them the truth they'd understand. But he's feeling stupidly and nastily brave, like he needs to keep this one thing for himself, and he's clawing at what remaining scraps of energy he has to stand his ground, to keep his head up in the dread rising up his throat. "I went on a walk, and I met up with some friends. It wasn't planned."

                "And you couldn't take the time to tell us before you all but disappeared? You could've been dead in a ditch, and we'd be stuck twiddling our thumbs--"

                "He was with his friends _,_ Jack, it's O.K.--"

                " _What_ friends?" His dad laughs incredulously. "Last time I checked, he wasn't talking to _anyone—”_

                "Well maybe you aren't checking hard enough, Dad," Simon snaps.

                His dad throws his hands up in the air, acrid chuckles burning in the space between them. "I can't believe this--"

                "Jack, please--" his mom places a hand on his shoulder, which he shakes off as he paces the foyer, and it feels too enclosed and small for the three of them. Simon hasn’t moved, he can’t move, because he doesn’t know what he’ll do if he does—

                "All I've been _doing_ is _checking_ on you ever since...ever since--"

                "Ever since _what_ , Dad?" And now Simon is just baiting him, and he can't stop the trembling thing that’s clawing itself back into his limbs, that's stretching his skin so thin that he can already feel it starting to tear. His palms are tingling, are slick and wet and warm.

                "Ever since _the accident_ , Jesus fuck--"

                "You know it wasn't an accident," he spits.

                "Why are you doing this, Simon?”

                “Doing _what_ , Dad?” he’s yelling, hoarse and petty and weak. “Being a major disappointment? Causing more trouble than it’s worth? Becoming the worst thing that’s ever happened to you?”

                He stops pacing. “I never said _any_ of that—”

                “Then what do you _want_ me to do?”

                “I want—” his dad’s eyes are red, and his mouth is working, muscle jumping at his jaw in a way that reminds him of Bram, holding something violently back. “I want you to stop being like _this—_ ”

                "Do you think I _want_ to be this way?" he cries, "Sometimes I don't even want to _be here_ anymore—"

                And he's said too much.

                He's said too much, he's said too much, he said too fucking much and no one is speaking and they're looking at him in horror and he needs to leave now, now, _now_ \--

                "What do you mean by that, Simon?" his mom whispers, and sounding so sad and choked and betrayed, like he's stabbed her in the back and is still twisting the knife.

                “Nothing,” he says quickly, as if he can brush over something like this with more guilty reassurances, “I didn’t mean it, I was just—it didn’t mean anything.”

                “Simon, please,” his mom is reaching her hand out towards him, and he flinches away, and her face, he _can’t_ —why did he flinch, why is he making this worse? “You know you can talk to us about anything, right? You’ll tell us if—”

                “No, I know, just—forget it. It was a mistake.” He’s backing up towards the stairs. “Look, you’re right—I should have told you where I was, and I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

                “This isn’t about that, Simon,” his mom’s voice is getting louder and louder, trying to reach him as he scurries away, a hunched pathetic thing. “Please, can you please just _talk_ to us—”

                He's locked the door and his heart in pounding so loudly he can barely hear the soft knocks thudding against his back. “Simon, please,” his mom sounds tired and hurt and sad and he puts his hands over his ears, a coward and a fiend. “Simon—”

                He doesn’t know how long he stands there, listening to her knock. His arms grow stiff, then painfully tired. His skin is sticky with sweat and exhaustion. A deep ache starts to grip his legs again, clutching at his ankles and wrapping around his thighs. But he waits until he hears the stairs creak, until it’s just low voices he doesn’t need to hear to understand what’s being said.

                He sits on his bed. Moonlight collects on the small piles of dust on a sweatshirt he never bothered to pick up from the ground. He wants to sleep, he really should sleep, he needs this day to be over—but he can’t deal with another day like this, he can’t.

                His phone vibrates. There’s six unread messages.

 

                " _Hi, Simon! This is Cal. I very non-creepily got your number from Ethan”_

_“nbd"_

                “ _lol”_

_"hope your parents didn't get too mad"_

_“let me know if I’m bothering you and I will tone it down and/or cease and desist”_

                “ _or just cease and desist”_

 

His lips crack painfully, a burst of metal and salt. But he can’t even be bothered to wince.

 

 _"Hey Cal, sorry for the late response. Just talked to my parents._ ”

 

                Ellipses are already forming next to his thumb and he’s not going to gratify himself with the thought that Cal’s been waiting all this time for him to respond.

 

                “ _shit_ ”

                “ _how’d it go?_ ”

 

                “ _As good as you’d imagine_ ”

 

                “ _i have a very poor imagination :(”_

_“so you’ll need to give me the blow by blow”_

_“i didn’t mean that in a sexual way”_

_“or if I did, only a little bit”_

_“Don’t sell yourself short, you have a great imagination”_

                “ _You painted a really solid picture of Rakamon’s huge hands for me”_

                “ _it’s ***Rachmaninoff*** Si Pie"_

_“get with the program”_

_“I am with the program, Cal”_

_“You know what they say about large hands”_

_“oh my god shut the fuck up Simon”_

 

                His lip is wet, and his eyes are stinging, but his hands aren’t shaking anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little nervous about this one--do let me know what you think! Less angsty than usual. Hopefully entertaining? Got some plans for our boy Si Pie, ahaha.
> 
> Thank you so much for your encouragement and support--any and all feedback is much needed and greatly appreciated!!!


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